


Look Not to the Stars

by finnegans-way (ladyseeksthemuse)



Category: Eagle of the Ninth - Rosemary Sutcliff, The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Astrology, First Time, M/M, Pining, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 21:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyseeksthemuse/pseuds/finnegans-way
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus and Esca get their fortunes told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in July 2011 at: http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/2132.html?thread=1346900#t1346900
> 
> The Anon prompter requested a Marcus/Esca pairing: I love them both but they are like night and day!  
> So, I've been wondering about their Sun Signs, I have my own suspicions but maybe a "fortune teller" from Roman times would do a better job.

It was still early. The sun had just begun to crest in the sky and pale light spilled from behind the clouds. The day was young, yet the Calleva market was already alive with sights, smells and sounds as merchants hawked their wares. Patrons and customers moved through the busy streets, some ambling and some rushing as they perused market stalls. Among the crowd, two young men struggled to make their way through the throng of people. One was hampered by a moderate limp, and the other was dragging a very unwilling goat by a short tether of hemp.

“Esca,” Marcus ordered, gritting his teeth slightly as yet another citizen bumped his leg in passing. “I wanted to be at the temple as soon as it opened. Carry the goat if you must.” 

The slave frowned, blue eyes squinted against the light. 

“I think Asklepios will still accept your sacrifice,” he finally answered, and Marcus could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “And I’d do better to carry you. This goat has _four_ good legs. You should have let your uncle hire a litter,” he admonished.

“I won’t be carried like some _fucking_ invalid,” Marcus snarled. He scowled, folding his arms and doing his best to stare the shorter man down. The Briton was unmoved. His chin tilted upward defiantly as his hand twisted in the goat’s makeshift harness. It bleated once in response, stumbling a bit as the rope was suddenly shortened. Esca sighed, hands loosening the rope as if he were trying to soothe both the goat and Marcus simultaneously.

He scrubbed a hand through his bronze hair, briefly eyeing the crowd to ensure they drew no attention. Several sets of eyes had turned their way with Marcus’s volume, but now they were looking elsewhere. The Roman was silent, but his chest was heaving with deep, angry breaths. Esca did the only thing he could think of to quell the storm.

“ _Domine_ ,” he began quietly, and the word was as bile on his tongue. Yet, when he saw Marcus’s eyes grow wide in shock, he knew the title had had the desired effect. 

“You don’t have to – ” Marcus said quickly, with a subtle shake of his head.

“But it is what you are, _Domine_ ,” Esca responded, brow furrowed. “And if the _master_ reopens his wounds because he insists on walking into town, the _slave_ will be blamed for not looking to his care.” 

Esca felt the smallest twinge of pity when Marcus’s face fell.

“You’ve made such progress in these past months, but if you don’t take at least a moment’s rest you’ll be sacrificing this goat in prayer instead of in thanks.” 

As Marcus nodded in agreement, moving to seat himself on a nearby stump, a shaft of light broke through the clouds, scattering sunbeams across Esca’s face and hair. The Briton’s eyes sparkled all the more as Marcus muttered,

“It appears that Mithras has taken your side as well.”

Esca didn’t respond, squatting down beside Marcus and idly scratching the goat across its nape. They sat in companionable silence until Marcus had rested his leg, then they continued on.

As they neared the temple of Asklepios, the crowd grew thicker and the noise, louder. Marcus and Esca slowed, merging into the group proceeding toward the gates. Though the temple was somewhat small, nowhere near the size of a typical temple in the heart of Rome, the courtyard was still crowded with those seeking healing. 

The two men were nearing the gates when Marcus’s attention was drawn aside. To his left was a stall and he stopped short, noting the zodiac ring painted upon the side. In front of the stall stood a Persian astrologer dressed in a _fez_ and richly embroidered robes, calling out to the crowd. He was largely ignored as people strode by. 

Esca was preoccupied, making sure the goat kept her feet, but soon he realized that Marcus had wandered off. He found him standing a few feet from the stall, studying the zodiac. 

“What is it?” he asked, observing Marcus’s silence.

Marcus pointed to the ring. 

“I’ve seen this, in a _mithraeum_ in Rome. It’s the _Cosmic Egg_. It gave birth to Mithras at the beginning of time, and the universe with him.”

“You follow the cult of Mithras?” 

Marcus and Esca looked up to see the man smiling and walking over to join them. 

“What would you know of Mithras, Chaldean?” Marcus asked, surprised.

Nonplussed, the man stroked his beard.

“I’ve made it my life’s work to study the cosmos. Your Mithras allies himself with the sun and the stars. Surely you have an understanding of the influence of the zodiac upon our lives.”

As Marcus and the Persian continued to converse, Esca took a discreet step backwards, disinteret painted plainly across his sharp features.

“I have studied some astrology,” Marcus continued, “ but Mithras’s power is in the light, not the darkness.”

The astrologer grinned,

“And what are the stars but points of light? Come, we’ll have a test.”

He glanced at Esca.

“ Your slave, when was he born?”

Marcus looked between the Briton and the Chaldean. Though Esca’s face now bore a careful neutrality, he had bristled noticeably at the question.

“I,” Marcus began sheepishly, then stepped over toward his slave. Esca had been with him for only a few months, and for half of that time, the young Briton had been little more than a ghost in the Aquila house. He’d seen to Marcus’s physical care, anticipating the older man’s needs with a perfect efficiency. Yet, he’d held to the adage that slaves should be seen but not heard, content to say little other than “yes, _Domine_ ,” and upon learning of Marcus’s distaste for the title, simply, “yes.”

Marcus had not been able to bring himself to question Esca about his life, despite the Roman’s burning curiosity. It seemed wrong, like yet another demand made by a master who already required so much. Memories were the only thing Esca could call his own and Marcus, of all people, could relate to that ardent need to hold onto the man he once was. 

But even as Esca stretched out, each night, on a pallet across Marcus’s doorway, the Roman’s chest ached with loneliness. 

So he’d watched, hoping the Briton’s actions would voice what words did not. And he’d learned, learned that Esca preferred the early morning, for when he drew water for the kitchen, he would turn his face upward to catch soft rays of sunlight. He’d learned that Esca could walk the length of the house without making a sound, that he used lemon rind, when it was available, to keep his hands and nails clean. He’d learned that Esca could calm any horse in the stable with a single touch, but he preferred _Glacies_ , Uncle Aquila’s white mare, most of all. 

The only time Marcus had ever caught the Briton unaware, he’d found Esca in the mare’s stall, his head resting on her flank, carving at a knot of wood as the horse lay quietly in repose. Marcus had released Esca earlier that morning, granting him free time until _cena_ , but Esca had jumped to his feet as if he’d been caught shirking his duties. 

The next morning, Marcus had presented him with a basket full of burls of cypress and elm. Wordlessly, the Briton had accepted the gift, backing out of the room to take it to the slaves’ quarters. Just before he left, he looked up, met Marcus’s eyes and said, 

“My father taught me to carve. Once we met a traveling merchant who was so taken with my carvings that he traded two fur blankets for a simple flute. I was only a boy, but I helped keep our hut warm that winter.” 

In response, Marcus had bitten his tongue to the point of pain to stop the smile that wanted to break through. He’d returned Esca’s grave nod, turning away as if Esca speaking – full sentences, no less – was utterly commonplace and not a minor miracle. 

And more miracles came as Esca found his voice. It came slowly, but steadily, like the trickling thaw of winter to spring. One day, he commented upon the similarity between the color of a flower and the pigment used to create his tribal markings. An attempt to weed the villa’s wild garden led to a story of chasing rabbits out of his family’s fields. Esca grew more and more at ease in his new surroundings. The two began to find a familiarity that Marcus did not always enjoy, particularly those times when Esca would quietly remark that Marcus might find his sandals more easily if he put them in the same place or that he was liable to cut his finger off, holding his knife in such a way. 

Yet from all of those hard-won moments of conversations, those precious gleanings from Esca’s past, Marcus had never thought to ask when Esca was born. 

Now, Esca watched Marcus warily, and the Roman almost felt afraid to broach the subject. Finally, he stepped closer and said, so that only Esca could hear, 

“Forgive me, Esca – I’ve never asked –” 

“Aye, you haven’t, but it matters not. I was not born under a Roman sky.”

Esca’s reply was eerily quiet, but his expression had become so tense that Marcus cast a worried glance all about them, certain that someone would notice Esca’s proud look, his erect posture, both of which were _very_ unlike a slave. In his periphery, Marcus saw the astrologist was watching them intently.

“Alright…shall I tell him you don’t know?” Marcus asked quickly, scrambling for a solution. 

Esca sighed, relaxing the hard set of his shoulders and carefully focusing both eyes downward. It was the perfect image of an obedient slave, but when he spoke, Marcus felt no sense of relief.

“My master has many more important matters to consider than the birth of a lowly slave. I was born in the weeks before the barley moon, the first harvest season for my people.”

As the Persian consulted his charts, Marcus stared at Esca, silently willing the younger man to look up at him. He was merely confronted with the bridge of Esca’s nose and a thick mop of ginger hair. 

“Esca,” he whispered, but the Briton averted his gaze. “Esca, I don’t understand. Have I offended you somehow?”

The Briton responded with another sigh and one tentative, inscrutable glance that left Marcus full of questions, but then the astrologer was excitedly beckoning them closer and there was no time to ask.


	2. Chapter 2

“He’s under the sign of the crab,” the Chaldean said, addressing only Marcus, “often withdrawn, but with a strong survival instinct.“

 _Well that’s certainly true_ , Marcus thought, ruefully. Esca had survived war and years of enslavement and despite the fact that he spent his days at his master’s side, Marcus often still felt a yawning distance between them.

“With the sun in Cancer, there is a strong attachment to the past – _very_ long memories,” the Persian grinned, “ and they are often intrigued by objects that have some sort of a history.”

Marcus stopped short, glancing furtively at Esca, thinking of the MacCunoval blade, of his own miniature Eagle totem. Esca continued to maintain a blank face, looking out over the temple courtyard. 

“To feel at peace in the world, they must have roots. Give them a place to plant roots and they will be unceasingly loyal and steadfast. Like the Crab, they may have a hardened exterior, but breach the shell and a yielding softness awaits you.” 

The astrologer wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and a sudden flush rose from the base of Marcus’s neck. The young Roman swallowed convulsively, but began to cough at the sudden dryness of his throat. Esca responded immediately, grabbing a small skin of watered wine from the satchel he carried. Marcus took a deep draught, coughing again at the onslaught of moisture. 

“I’d forgotten how much dust gets stirred up at the market,” Marcus said abruptly, once he was able to talk.

“Of course,” the Persian was quick to agree, and Esca was completely silent, though Marcus would have sworn the Briton’s jaw gave a slight twitch. “So,” the astrologer began after a slight pause, “Have I intrigued you enough to hear about your own sign?” 

“Ah, well,” Marcus said slowly, dithering a bit. “I don’t see how your description applies to only one person. Similar things could be said of anyone I think – ”

But then he looked to Esca, and although the Briton had remained utterly impassive as the Chaldean described the sign of the Crab, suddenly the man had Esca’s attention. His stance was primed, eyes focused intently on the astrologer, as if he’d been waiting to hear what would be said. If Marcus didn’t know better, he’d say the younger man looked…eager. 

Before he could register that it was happening, Marcus was reaching into his purse and handing over a coin. The astrologer smiled with glee, pocketing the coin and smoothing out his star charts.

“I was born the second day before the _Idus_ of _Maius_ ,” Marcus said in response to the Persian’s questioning look.   
“It is so fitting that you follow Mithras, my young friend,” the Chaldean began. “For you fall under the sign of the bull, stalwart and unwavering once you have chosen your course. Some of your associates may find your nature too rigid, but you are quick to take your responsibilities very seriously, and many benefit from your calm nature and your reliable instincts. Mithras is the soldier’s god, correct?” the astrologer asked.

Marcus nodded, awash in memories.

“I was a centurion,” he finally said.

“So young?” the Persian asked, shocked. “You must be an exceptional young man - definitely a hard worker,” he stated, returning to his charts. “And all of the things you earn: accolades, homes, land, you view not as status symbols, but symbols of security. You are innately practical, not given to displays of emotion, but you have a sentimental streak, and when you allow yourself to relax, you enjoy life’s simple pleasures. Adaptation is not your strong suit, for you are deeply rooted in your routines and traditions, and a deviation from your plans may leave you feeling lost, but fear not. Find a new challenge and you will find purpose again. Hmm,” the Chaldean mused to himself, finally glancing at Esca. “One who is deeply rooted and one who is in need of roots. A fortuitous pairing, indeed.”

Marcus followed the astrologer’s gaze, but his eyes lingered on his Esca’s face. Esca twisted the rope in his hand, turning his attention back to the long-forgotten she-goat, who’d been contentedly nosing around for trash. He tugged briefly at the lead, and the goat began to walk behind him as he moved the few steps to reach Marcus’s side. Marcus briefly looked away to thank the astrologer, and then he turned back to Esca, asking,

“Shall we continue on to the temple?” 

The Briton nodded, finally looking up to meet his master’s gaze, and Marcus noted the faint blush painted across Esca’s cheeks. Thinking of his own reactions to some of the astrologer’s more provocative declarations, Marcus stated, 

“Perhaps you should have some wine, Esca. You seem flushed.”

“Yes, it is rather dusty today,” his slave replied, and Marcus knew that Esca had indeed been holding back his laughter at the Chaldean’s earlier statements.

“Hmm,” Marcus huffed, noncommittally. 

Esca had still managed to keep a straight face, and after he’d taken a drink, he held the wineskin out for Marcus to take. Shaking his head in mock-anger, Marcus reached for the bag. He swallowed hard when the younger man’s fingers brushed his in passing.

The charged moment was gone as quickly as it had come, and Marcus handed the wine back to Esca. As the slave replaced the bag, Marcus said,

“If you were embarrassed or offended in anyway, Esca, I apologize.”

Esca shrugged the negative. 

“What can the stars tell of a life lived on the Earth?” he answered. “ It is true that I have a long memory. I remember much of my homeland, but who would _not_ haunted by such memories? _Your_ past is ever-present, is it not? And just as there is also stubbornness in me,” he said thoughtfully, “I think…there is also loyalty in you.” 

As seemed to be the usual, Marcus was left speechless at Esca’s words. Roughly, he cleared his throat as the two began to walk again. Moments later, he paused when he heard Esca softly exclaim,

“Now _there_ is the place to have your fortune told.” 

Marcus looked to where Esca was pointing and saw a stall decorated in beading and red linen. It looked rich and exotic, and at the forefront, the eye of Horus was painted in some shade that glittered as it caught the sun. Before it stood a woman wearing veils matching the stall’s draping, but her voice carried despite the fabric. 

“Would you like to know your future?” She asked as Marcus and Esca drew closer. “Let Madame Lydia read your palm. She can answer the burning questions in your heart.”

“Thank you, but I’ve just come from speaking with the Chaldean, further up the way,” Marcus answered, gesturing back the way they’d come. 

The young woman huffed dramatically, her bangles jingling as she moved. 

“The Chaldean? The Chaldean looks to the stars for his answers, but they are not there. Make no mistake, Roman. Astrologers are cheap conjurers. _We_ are the _Rom_. Our magic is _real_. And,” she concluded, “unlike the Chaldean, who charges a _sestrece_ , I believe, this will only cost you a _dupondius_. 

Marcus sighed and looked to Esca, who raised his eyebrows and inclined his head.

“It will give you something to compare him to, at least,” the younger man stated simply. 

“That’s true,” Marcus replied, acquiescing. “Very well, lead on,” he said to the young woman. 

“One moment,” she smiled, vanishing behind the curtains. 

When she returned, she beckoned Marcus forward. He handed over the fee, and then stepped into the stall, feeling the drapery close behind him. 

 

For a moment, Marcus was in the dark, for the stall’s thick material blocked out much of the outer sunlight. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out some shelves, lit candles and a table, where a surprisingly young woman sat watching him. Her black hair curled down over her shoulders in spiraling ringlets and a small charm rested on her forehead. It dangled from a golden chain weaved into her curls. 

“ _Madame_ Lydia?” Marcus asked, shocked. He’d been expecting an old crone, at the very least.

“It was Anya’s idea,” the fortune-teller smiled, referring to her assistance outside the booth. “She thought _Mistress_ Lydia would not garner the respect my gift merits. You seem rather young yourself, for a soldier.”

Marcus stopped, brows raised in surprise. As Lydia waved him forward to be seated, she continued,

“Not everything is magic. You have a soldier’s walk – but,” she added, nodding at his limp, “you are not a soldier anymore.”

Marcus shook his head and eased himself onto the cushioned chair, shifting his weight to take the stress off of his wounded thigh. As he rested, Lydia stood and lit a stick of incense in the back of the booth. The scent of cinnamon filled the room and Marcus inhaled deeply.

“Anya tells me you were going to the _Asklepion_.” 

When Marcus nodded his assent, the fortune- teller held out her hands, palm up, on the table. Tentatively, Marcus mirrored the gesture, tensing for just a moment when she took his hands in hers.

“It is fine, praying to Asklepios to heal a wounded leg,” she said softly, then softer still, “but what of a broken heart?”

“What? I –” Marcus stuttered, gaping across the table.

“Ah,” Lydia sighed, “I always forget – Romans have no feelings. Well then,” she smiled to herself, “let us see what your hands have to tell me. This is your dominant one?” She asked, thumbing across the palm of Marcus’s right hand. 

He nodded mutely, staring down at their hands. 

Lydia released his left hand to concentrate on his right. She studied it intently, examining Marcus’s wrist, his fingers and the lines in his palms. She even turned his hand to inspect his knuckles. 

“You do not need me to tell you that these are _very_ strong hands, but see the thick set of the knuckle? That means you also have a strong, instinctive drive. And the square fingers,” she tapped his index fingertip, “mean you are down-to earth. You have a particularly long first finger, which indicates that you often find yourself in the lead, giving orders. Your fingernails are somewhat large in relation to your fingertips. That tells me you are accustomed to hard work.” 

“But you know that I was a soldier. All soldiers are accustomed to hard work,” Marcus said briefly.

“True – but your walk did not tell me that you were in a leadership position. Your hands did.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed, but he gave a short nod. Lydia’s smile was full of self-assurance.

“Let’s continue, then. Now, we come to the heart of the matter,” she said, turning his hand again so his palm showed. “You can read the soul in a palm, if you know how to look for it.” 

She studied Marcus’s face for a long moment, and Marcus felt the urge to turn his eyes away from her penetrating gaze. There was only one other person who could look through him that way. When she took hold of his palm again, he wondered if she could feel his hammering pulse. 

“Oh,” she said softly, and Marcus heard the sorrow in her voice. “You are so young, but you’ve known so much loss,” she said, touching a broken line in the middle of his palm. “Family – your dreams. But,” she continued, looking to the edge of his hand, “You are exceedingly practical. Though you have known loneliness, you needed little direction as a child and were happy to find your own way in the world.”

 _Forced to find my own way_ , Marcus thought to himself, surprised at the sudden lump that rose in his throat. 

Lydia scanned the other edge of his hand, and Marcus saw her soft smile.

“There is one who watches over you. A loved one,” she stated, pointing to two lines etched beneath his little finger.

The lump in Marcus’s throat seemed to double in size. He saw her frown and knew that his heart rate had increased enough for her to feel. 

“A loved one?” he managed to ask. His mind swam with images of Esca, tending to his wound with an effortlessly gentle hand and kneading locked muscles with a firmer touch. He pictured those hands, deftly sanding rough wood and interweaving branches, creating a foot stool so Marcus could elevate his leg in comfort. 

Marcus tried, in vain, to swallow the lump back down, wanting to kick himself at the sounds of hope he could hear in his own voice. 

“Yes, it’s right here. A double heart line,” the fortune-teller answered. “Perhaps you are protected by the spirits of your ancestors,” she mused.

Ah – that was certainly a much safer thought. 

“Well, they were remiss in their duties,” Marcus murmured.

“Perhaps not. They have imbued you with their strength, their sense of purpose.” She pointed to another line in his palm. “See here? Your fate line is joined to your life line. You are self-made and you have never lost sight of what it is you want.” 

“But why?” The words left Marcus’s mouth, nearly of their own volition. “What is the purpose of knowing what I want and having it taken from me?”

Lydia grasped his larger hand with both of her own, remaining silent for long moments. Marcus smelled a whiff of smoke as the last of the incense burned out. Finally, Lydia replied,

“I can tell you this. Nothing is ever taken from us that is not replaced. I cannot say how, but we are never left empty.”

Impulsively, she reached out to lay a hand upon his cheek. They both gasped.


	3. Chapter 3

Marcus felt a spark pass from Lydia’s hand into his skin. It jarred him, and his knees nearly hit the underside of the table. He took a breath, looking down into the fortune-teller’s face. She seemed frozen, eyes squeezed tightly shut and her hand seemingly fused to his face. He latched onto her wrist, calling out her name to wake her, but she heard nothing. He debated calling out for Anya, but then Lydia began to speak, her voice low and rushed.

“I can see him,” she said. “He wears a uniform, the raiment of an officer…He’s riding a bay mare. A boy rides with him.”

Marcus exhaled, grabbing Lydia’s wrist tighter as she cradled his face.

“My father,” he breathed. “ He bought the mare for my birthday.” He shut his eyes against the onslaught of memories. “She was _so_ fast. I felt like Bellerophon himself. ” 

“There’s a meadow – a field, with an olive tree. You’re playing with a wooden _gladius_. He sits beneath the tree. He’s carving…” she continued.

Though Marcus knew the memory immediately, he couldn’t bear to speak of the eagle his father had made, so he just nodded his affirmation. Lydia paused, head inclined as though she were listening.

“There is another,” she said, and Marcus waited, muscles taut. After a pause, she continued, “A young man…his arms are tattooed. He’s standing in an arena…but he has thrown down his sword.”

Marcus stopped breathing.

“What did you say?” he asked, voice barely audible, even in the quiet room. 

She ignored his question, continuing, “There’s so much loneliness in his eyes, like he bears the world on his shoulders. Those eyes – blue like the sea.”

Marcus’s pulse raced so fiercely he could feel it pounding behind his eyes, threatening to burst through his skin. He wanted to beg her to stop and to continue all at once. He bit his lip, hard, staring across the table, startling when Lydia finally opened her eyes. He sighed when he saw pity there.

“Oh Marcus,” she mused, taking her hand from his face and sitting back. “You deny yourself so much – and for no reason. The man I saw…he would hold your heart, if you would only open it.” 

“Esca,” Marcus breathed softly, the name leaving his lips before he could stop it. A vise squeezed inside of his chest.

“Yes, I’m here.”

Marcus and Lydia looked up to see Esca standing in the room, staring down at Marcus expectantly. For a moment, Marcus just stared at him, while Lydia smiled,

“Eyes like the sea…He’s already found you.” 

“You called for me,” Esca said to Marcus, his glance shifting between the Roman and the fortune-teller.

Marcus’s gaze was still confused, then he seemed to right himself, answering,

“I, ah – yes. What have you done with the goat?”

“The goat?”

“Yes. Where is it?”

Now Esca looked confused, but he did his best to follow the strange line of conversation.

“It’s just outside the stall. Her assistant is looking after it.”

Marcus nodded.

“That’s good. Uh –” he turned back to look at Lydia. “I was bringing a goat to sacrifice at the _Asklepion_. But, I think I will bring an offering another day …I would like for you to have it instead.”

Lydia’s dark eyes lit up with shock.

“That is very generous, but I could never accept – ” she tried to state, but Marcus would have none of it. 

“Well, if you’re insisting.”

Marcus was, so Lydia stood, casting a subtle glance between the two men. She stepped toward the exit.

“Anya and I need to put your gift some place safe. Could I impose upon you to watch my stall for a moment? We shouldn’t be more than a quarter-hour.”

Esca simply stared at her, folding his hands before him, but Marcus managed a slow nod. Lydia flashed them both a dimpled smile.

“Thank you so much. I’m sure you’ll find some way to pass the time.”

Then she stepped out of the stall and Marcus was alone with Esca. 

Esca busied himself walking the perimeter of the room, lifting various knickknacks to examine them further. When he’d satisfied his curiosity, he came and sat down in Lydia’s chair, surveying Marcus with calm, sharp eyes. He placed his hands atop the table, gliding his fingers along the smooth finish, his eyes never leaving the Roman’s face. 

Marcus looked down at the table, before briefly meeting Esca’s gaze.

“I barely spoke,” Marcus began, nonplussed. “I said your name so softly. How could you have heard?”

Esca blinked, fixing Marcus with a deliberate gaze that made the Roman’s pulse jump in his chest. After a moment, he replied, 

“I was close by.” 

The response was somewhat cryptic, but Marcus understood. The Roman bit his lip, studying the grained wood of the table.

“How much did you hear?” he finally asked.

“Much.”

Marcus’s first instinct was to feel some anger that Esca had eavesdropped, but instead, he felt flooded with relief, for an opportunity had appeared for him to ask what was, indeed, a burning question.

“Is it true, what she said? Esca, are you very lonely here? Are you unhappy?” Marcus asked, fearing the answer even as he voiced the question.

Esca paused, studying him for what seemed like an eternity before he answered, “no more than you are.”

Then Esca stood, pacing the edge of the room once again. Marcus was content to just watch him. Even within the little stall, he moved with such grace. Esca turned his back, presumably to examine a shelf, but then Marcus heard him inquire,

“That is all you’re going to ask me?” Abruptly he turned, stalking back toward the table and leaning down, propping himself with both hands. In this position, he loomed over Marcus, who was still seated. “You understand that I heard _everything_ she told you, and this is all you will say?” 

As hard as Marcus tried, he was unable to meet Esca’s gaze, so he glanced around the room, muttering, “You decided to discount all that the Chaldean said. Why should this be any different?”

Esca scoffed, “I never said _that_ , and this _is_ different. Surely she couldn’t have _pretended_ to have completely accurate visions of your past - and mine,” he finished after a pause. “The woman is a seer and, _you_ believe her, unless your hands are only _pretending_ to tremble.” 

Abruptly, Marcus moved his hands out of sight and into his lap, grabbing two handfuls of his long toga to stop the tremors. He cast about for something, anything to change the subject and his eyes found an object of interest.

“Oh look, Esca,” he said quickly. “She has a _lantrunculi_ board. Surely the pieces must be nearby –”

“We are _not_ playing _lantrunculi_! _You_ are going to _talk_ to me,” Esca rebuked him and Marcus sat back, aghast at the Briton’s tone.

 

Marcus looked up at Esca and Esca looked down at Marcus, waiting. Several times, Marcus moved as if to oblige Esca’s request, but each time, he sat back and was silent again.

Esca seemed to realize that the request was futile, for he stood up, stretching his arms briefly. He looked over Marcus’s head, at the part in the curtains that would lead him back out into the market.

“Very well,” Esca relented, walking toward the curtains.

Marcus kept his eyes resolutely forward as Esca walked past him, though a quiet sigh fell from his lips. 

But Esca did not leave. Moving with the speed and grace that Marcus had long admired, Esca turned, crouching just behind Marcus’s seat, close enough for the Roman to feel Esca’s breathing on the back of his neck.

“If you will not, then _I_ will talk to _you ___,” Esca practically growled, and Marcus gasped when he felt a warm hand plunge into his lap, grabbing Marcus roughly through the thin fabric of his toga.

“Esca, what –” Marcus yelped, but then he could say no more, for the Briton’s other hand clapped over his mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

Marcus’s hands were scrambling, grabbing and pulling at Esca’s forearm, but Esca suddenly seemed possessed of a supernatural strength. Completely disregarding the Roman’s struggles, Esca made a tight fist, wrapping a wad of the toga around Marcus’s dick as he began to stroke him to hardness. His other hand held fast across Marcus’s mouth.

“I know not what to make of you.” Esca said, voice as conversational as if they were still standing in the market. 

Had he been able, Marcus would have asked a myriad of questions. How had Esca known what Marcus felt? Did _he_ feel the same? But then Esca twisted his hand, and the silk slid _just so_ and all Marcus could say was “ _Esca_ ,” as his cock filled with blood until it had a pulse of its own. 

Esca thumbed over his head, and Marcus gave a ragged gasp. The silk rubbed mercilessly over him and Marcus’s grip instantly changed as he clung to Esca’s arm like a lifeline. Then abruptly, Esca let go of Marcus’s toga, leaving him aching with want. The hand slackened from Marcus’s face but he still tried to hold onto Esca’s arm. There was just enough room for Esca to hear the Roman’s desperate, hoarse, “ _please_.”

Then the hands were back, reaching for the hem of Marcus’s toga and rucking it up to bare his lap. Esca grabbed him again and Marcus swore when he felt the touch of warm, calloused skin on his naked cock.

“No, Centurion,” Esca chided, renewing his grip over Marcus’s mouth. “You had your time to talk. Now it is mine. That is what you’ve wanted, no? For me to talk?” 

Esca began a relentless, smooth rhythm, pulling along Marcus’s dick, rotating his hand at the head and drawing out ragged moans from deep within Marcus’s chest. The Roman would have sagged in his seat if not for Esca’s strong arms holding him up. 

“I know what it is to be a slave,” Esca began, a bit breathless as he stroked along Marcus’s length. “Do your work well and if you are lucky, your master will ignore you. For two years, that has been the closest I have ever felt to being free. When I was sent to the arena, I thought the gods had answered my prayer for death. But instead I came to you, to the house of my enemy. I thought I would suffer at your hands, but you did not abuse me. So I did my work, but you would not ignore me. No, you _watched_ me – until I could feel your eyes even when I was alone, until you were in my _every_ thought.”

He was silent then, but with one artful twist of a sure hand, Marcus was arching back into Esca’s chest and upward into his fist, a long, keening moan muffled in the Briton’s palm. 

“You watch me, and you watch me, and you say _nothing_ ,” Esca hissed, and Marcus shivered at the intensity in his voice. “Do you not know your own mind? Do you not know what this means, to watch me the way you do? A decorated centurion who cannot tell a man, _his_ man, what he wants? It’s _maddening_ ,” Esca groaned, punctuating the word with a squeeze. The room was already dim, but Marcus thought he would go blind at the delicious friction. 

Eyes rolling back, Marcus tried to apologize, to form the words that would make up for months of lost time, but all he could manage was a rough cry as Esca raked a fingernail along the underside of his cock. 

Vainly, he tried to hold back, but Marcus soon felt the clenching in his gut, warning him that he was near completion. He gasped for air, struggling against the hand over his mouth. Yet, he felt utterly grateful that Esca had thought to muffle his cries, for otherwise, he was certain that the entire market would hear the sounds. 

The frequency of his cries increased, and he felt Esca sense the change. Quickly, Esca gave one hitch backward, and Marcus’s chair tipped until it was balanced on its two back legs. He pressed back on Marcus’s mouth until the Roman’s head fell back to rest on Esca’s shoulder. 

“I want to feel you,” Esca whispered fiercely into his ear. “Spend for me, Marcus.” 

And Marcus did, crying out as the fluid streamed out of his cock and down Esca’s still-clenched fist. Marcus’s whole body jerked as Esca gave him one last squeeze, milking out the last remaining drops. 

Slowly, Esca tilted the chair forward until it rested on all four legs. He unwrapped his fingers from Marcus’s softening dick, and pulled his hand away from the Roman’s mouth. Immediately Marcus leaned forward, resting his forearms and his face upon the wooden table and taking several deep, audible breaths. 

When he finally sat up again, Esca was standing at his side, looking intently at him.

“I was careful,” he said. “I haven’t marked your face.”

Marcus just kept breathing. A bruised face was the last thing on his mind. At the moment, he wasn’t particularly capable of even forming coherent thoughts. Eventually, feeling returned to his limbs, and he clumsily reached for the edge of his toga, pulling it back down over his lap. 

“You,” Marcus began, and then abruptly stopped as he watched Esca lift up his own short tunic, wiping Marcus’s seed across the bare skin of his flat stomach. Marcus caught a brief glimpse of the dark blonde hair leading down into Esca’s _bracco_ and felt his mouth go dry. “You said my name,” he breathed, dragging his eyes back up to Esca’s face.

Esca paused, face thoughtful, like he was just realizing he’d done so. 

“And what do you think about that?” he asked, and Marcus was fairly certain he was being patronized. 

Still, though Esca’s question was somewhat light, especially considering the intimacy they’d just shared, Marcus did not follow in the same vein. He suddenly felt the urge to look Esca, fully, in the eyes, so he slowly got to his feet, leg trembling beneath him. 

“I think,” he said, face utterly serious, “that my name has never sounded so wonderful.” 

Esca gave a quiet sigh. His lips quirked slightly, barely the ghost of a smile, but Marcus felt his heart leap. He reached out, wrapping his hand around the back of Esca’s neck, fingers drifting up through the thick strands of the Briton’s hair. Then just as quickly, he withdrew, unsure of what Esca might think. The younger man sighed again, and Marcus heard a distinct change in the Briton’s tone. He looked at Esca’s face and saw the faint traces of disappointment.

“Esca…I’m – ” Marcus began but then stopped, feeling the need to apologize but unsure of his offence.

Esca just shook his head and reached for Marcus’s hand. Slowly, as if he expected Marcus to balk, he brought the Roman closer until Marcus’s hand rested where it had been. Esca felt Marcus’s fingers clench briefly in his hair as he held the Roman’s hand in place. Imploring blue eyes looked up into Marcus’s face.

“Marcus,” Esca said slowly, feeling Marcus’s fingers grip the back of his neck at the sound. “What do you want from me?” 

Marcus exhaled as warmth filled his chest until he thought it would split open. Everything. I would have everything you were willing to give. But as hard as he tried, the words would not leave his lips. “I want,” he finally began. “I would, ah, very much like to…” 

Marcus’s face reddened as he struggled to communicate, to tell Esca how _much_ he was wanted and to do it with the eloquence and the gravity that the man deserved. But the words would not come, so he finally just decided to follow Esca’s example and _show_ him. 

Taking a big step forward, Marcus closed the space between them and pressed his lips to Esca’s. The Briton immediately grabbed for Marcus’s waist as Marcus’s free hand joined his other. All ten fingers dug eagerly into Esca’s hair and the Briton’s lips parted at the exquisite pressure. 

“Oh,” Marcus breathed against Esca’s mouth as words finally came. “ _This_. I want _this_. I want to know you, Esca.”

Clever hands traveled up Marcus’s back, pressing him closer. Marcus stumbled, trying to get as close to Esca as he could. He sighed when he felt Esca smile against his mouth, but when Esca took hold of his bottom lip, nipping it hard with his teeth, Marcus moaned. Grabbing Esca round the shoulders, he muscled the Briton backwards, but there was no solid wall to pin him against. Esca bumped his head on a shelf instead, and his pained cry stopped Marcus in his tracks. He pulled back, looking down at Esca, sheepishly. 

Esca just gave him an amused smile, turning the both of them around and pulling him close again. Marcus forgot all about his earlier clumsiness when Esca’s tongue curled into his mouth. Esca began to walk them backwards and Marcus just followed, moving carefully so he could keep their mouths fused together. Esca stopped when his legs bumped against the room’s lone table, boosting himself up to sit on top of it. Marcus reached out for him, blushing and fervent, but Esca leaned back on his hands, looking up at him. Using his legs, Esca pulled Marcus flush against him, wrapping the strong limbs around the Roman’s waist. Marcus inhaled sharply when he felt Esca’s arousal pressing against his abdomen. 

“You _do_ know me, Marcus,” Esca finally answered, sitting up to embrace him again. Marcus stopped him before he could, placing his large hand in the center of the Briton’s chest. 

“I want to know _everything_ ,” Marcus said ardently. Before Esca could reply, Marcus trailed his hand downward, continuing, “I want to know what sounds you make when I do _this_.” And he cupped Esca through his _bracco_. 

Esca fell back onto his hands, baring the pale skin of his neck. Even through the tunic, Marcus could feel Esca’s abdomen quivering. Emboldened, Marcus slipped his fingers underneath the tunic to touch Esca’s skin. He stroked the downy hair on Esca’s stomach, swearing when his fingers glided through the slick remains of his seed. The swollen head of the Briton’s cock peeked just over his waistband, and Marcus's fingers crept towards it as if on their own. He saw Esca’s chest heave once, and he stopped, mere inches from his goal.

“But, I want it to be your choice.” 

Esca glared at him as if he’d suddenly grown a third eye, but Marcus pressed on. “I know it seems silly to ask it now,” he said quickly, “when you’ve just … but this is important to me. I would not require this of you if you do not want it.” 

Esca sat up, mopping his brow with the sleeve of his tunic. Despite the creeping flush of arousal, the look on his face was exceedingly patient. He tilted his chin so he could meet Marcus’s eyes, squeezing his thighs a little tighter around Marcus’s hips.

“You would have me say that I want it?” Esca asked, the twinkle back in his blue eyes. He gripped Marcus’s hand, guiding it the last inch downward as Esca leaned forward, nipping roughly at the Roman’s jaw line and drawing out a very undignified whimper. “Very well,” Marcus heard him say, amusement clear in his voice. “This is what I want. This is _my_ choice.” And then Esca drew Marcus’s fingers closed, forming a loose fist around blood-swollen skin. 

Marcus reveled in the sound of Esca’s shuddering breaths, the shaking of Esca’s hand resting just atop his. Leisurely, Marcus flexed his fingers, caressing the soft skin of Esca’s shaft and easing his hand down into the front of the Briton’s _bracco_. 

“Would you also have me beg?” Esca rasped, the harsh sound choking off into a whimper of his own.

There was no spoken answer, just another experimental squeeze and the ringing sound of Esca’s moans. Esca had leaned back onto his hands, the tendons of his neck stretched like taut cords. Marcus watched, fascinated, as the flush rose up Esca’s neck until it covered his face. Esca’s teeth were clamped shut, but it did little to stop the sounds from escaping: a grunt when Marcus gripped him at the base, a moan as Marcus stroked up the shaft, an escalating whine when Marcus skimmed across the leaking slit of his cockhead.

The whines were, by far, Marcus’s favorite sound, and he focused intently on eliciting as many of them as he could. Esca’s head had tipped back, and Marcus took the silent offering. Wrapping his free hand around Esca’s shoulders, he pulled Esca forward so he could lick and suck at the bared hollow of Esca’s throat. Esca gasped, and Marcus moaned into Esca’s neck when he felt the Briton swell further in his hand.

“Marcus,” Esca groaned, legs shaking. “Kiss me.”

Eagerly, Marcus obeyed, grabbing a thick handful of Esca’s hair, stealing the scream from Esca’s mouth as he came, pulsing and warm, over Marcus’s hand. Esca froze, and then shook in his arms, quivering through the final throes of his orgasm. Marcus nosed the soft skin beneath Esca’s ear, gently releasing his cock as Esca unclamped his legs. 

They both groaned a little, Esca at the cramping in his thighs, and Marcus at the bruised soreness around his hips. Then they smiled, for the pain was most _certainly_ worth it. Marcus looked away briefly as he dipped down to grab the hem of his toga and used it to wipe the both of them clean. 

Esca forced his cramped muscles to move as he scooted himself off the table and stood. He walked toward Marcus and the Roman looked up, a question in his eyes.

“I’m not leaving,” Esca said, answering the unspoken question. “I’m just going to light some more incense. I’m sure Lydia already knew this would happen, but we should make it a little less obvious.”

Marcus couldn’t stop his blush, but he nodded seriously, walking around the room to right any of the shelves that had been disturbed.

Soon, they heard the exaggerated sounds of laughter and jingling bangles. Marcus sighed, wishing for just a little more time. He turned so he could greet the _Rom_ when they returned, but then Esca grabbed him, spinning the Roman around to press his lips to Marcus’s a final time. When he released him, Marcus turned back to the entrance, face flushed and eyes bright. They could burn all the incense they liked, Marcus thought, trying in vain to hide his smile, but the evidence was written plainly across his face. 

When Marcus and Esca stepped out of the fortune-teller’ s tent and into the bright sunlight, it felt a bit like entering another world. Esca glanced once at Marcus, before stepping back, taking the slave’s place, several paces behind his master. Marcus frowned, looking back over his shoulder.

Obviously, there had been no time for the two of them to discuss the implications or consequences of what they’d shared, and Marcus felt a vague flash of uncertainty. It grew when he saw Esca’s neutral expression. Though the market certainly was not the appropriate place, Marcus felt the urge to grab Esca’s shoulders, shake him, and demand the Briton’s promise that this was not the first and last time Marcus would ever know his touch. He quickly thought better of the idea, turning to motion Esca forward.

“I think I _would_ like to hire a litter for the trek home.”

“All right,” Esca said quietly, turning to do as Marcus bid.

He’d traveled only a few steps before Marcus said,

“And Esca – make sure it’s large enough for two – if you’d deign to ride with a Roman.”

“I would deign to ride with _you_.”

Marcus needed no other assurance. 

THE END


End file.
